Bits And Pieces

What Happened To The Cold

     Have you had your bout with a virus this year?  A virus is a strange poison that used to travel under the easy names of grippe, flu or the common cold.  Only your symptoms now with a virus are vague and varied.  You don't exactly sneeze--your nose just tickles.  You're throat isn't exactly sore--just dry and scratchy.  You don't exactly have fever--just feel warm with a chill thrown in now and again to make you realize you are not well.

     Your appetite is jaded.  Your energy is nil.  You figure something is amiss when you say "no" to a shopping and luncheon spree with your favorite shopping friend.  You're positive you're sick when you turn thumbs down on a dinner invitation tendered by a solicitous husband.

     Your family takes your indisposition casually.  As long as you re on your feet all is right with their world.  If you can absorb a mouthful of food, mother can't be really sick.

     But you're cranky, despondent, frankly unhappy and constantly close to tears so you see a doctor.

     Doctor is a six letter word meaning specialist in one of the many body branches.  He's busy, efficient, antiseptic and impersonal.

     Calling for an appointment, the nurse declared, "The doctor can see you April 10.  Is this an emergency?"  You're not feeling quite yourself so you answer "yes".  Now you're given her official permission to come in and wait.

     Wait you do, vaguely apologetic for not having the foresight to get sick on April 10, you spend a portion of your life in his office waiting room mingling and mixing your germs with the other old and young of ailing humanity.  Here you'll wait miserably for the signal to deliver your aches and pains into one of the inner-sanctum consulting rooms.

     Here you'll spend time trying to guiltily read your case history placed neatly on the desk by the nurse, jumping nervously as footsteps ebb and flow outside the closed door.  You'll spend time trying to estimate your own blood pressure reading on the gauge, weighing yourself or merely huddling in the leather chair contemplating your symptoms.

     Generally now that you are this far you will feel better, but an experimental cough or two and you decide you better stay.

     Doors open and close.  There's the low hum of conversation and the always present, constantly clamoring phone bell.  There is soft music coming through the pores of the ceiling and you're almost asleep when the doctor appears.

    Now some doctors prefer the Casey type, two buttons unbuttoned jackets.  Some wear smock affairs, mid-calf in length as though they just stepped from the operating room.  While others favor a suit or nonchalant sport jacket.  When I'm sick I prefer the doctor who doesn't constantly remind me of the hospital by donning white garb.  

     The doctor examines your throat, peers in your ears and squints at the thermometer you've been obediently chewing on between conversation.

     "You've a virus," he says firmly, pulling a prescription blank toward him.  He busily fills in a sheet or two with his own special hieroglyphics, while you mentally figure on hamburger for a week to pay for the medicine.

     "Take it easy, drink lots of fluids.  Take aspirin for fever and these prescriptions will help your throat and that sore ear.  These last pills will help prevent any other complications.  You'll be fine in a few days, but meanwhile pamper yourself a little.  How's the rest of the family?  Now if the rest get this put them to bed and use the same medicine."

     You mumble thanks as the doctor resumes his shuttle service between the four or five consulting rooms.

     You shop for dinner.  Pick up the prescriptions.  Call at the school for the kids and after supper is well started, table set and salads made, you chase one of the young family members off the davenport so you can stretch out for a wonderful moment of watching  "Huckleberry Hound" or "The Early Show" on TV.

     At peace with the world you feel a special contentment.  You really have been sick, it wasn't your imagination.  Now you've the doctor's official permission to rest--you really are a sick one.  That is for about ten minutes you are.  Pop struggles into the kitchen from the garage.  His face is feverish and his eyes red rimmed.

     "Hi hon.  I'm sure bushed.  No supper for me tonight.  Just a little soup.  Stomach not up to par.  Just a little tea and some custard would be nice.  I'm heading right for a hot bath and bed.  Can you call and say I won't be at that meeting.  The company doctor says I've a virus."

     Oh well Mom, cheer up!  Maybe on our tombstone we'll have inscribed--"See, didn't I tell you I was sick."

Written March 5, 1964